


Christmas Stalkings

by oyhumbug



Category: General Hospital
Genre: F/M, Holidays, Humor, Romance, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-18
Updated: 2010-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-19 06:16:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1458997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oyhumbug/pseuds/oyhumbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following a series of unlikely events, Jason and Elizabeth find themselves continuously tossed together. After one too many coincidences, Elizabeth starts to suspect that there is more to the "accidents" than what meets the eye and enlists Jason's help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted at fanfiction.net, LJ (oy_humbug2), my own site (Delicious Infatuation), and Liason message boards.

**Christmas Stalkings**

**RTN's 12 Days of Christmas Fan Fiction Challenge 2010**

 

**Part One**

 

**Prompt #1: Isn't there anyone out there who can tell me what Christmas is all about?**

_**~ A Charlie Brown Christmas** _

 

The room was dim – smokey, even, in the shadows of the fading, winter's day, but the darkness was appropriate; it confirmed the desperation saturating the thick, suffocating air. While outside the world was a place of wonder, a magical kaleidoscope of color, inside his office they were shrouded in secrecy and deception, the upcoming holiday and the spirit which infused it lost and forgotten. No, their world was anything but festive.  
  
“Are you sure you want to do this,” he questioned the attractive woman sitting across from him. It was a shame that someone so beautiful could be so forlorn, but, damn, did she class up his seedy joint. Dressed from head to toe in black designer wear, his latest client even had on a wide, somber hat with an ebony lace veil which obscured her drawn, pale face. Even in her despondency, though, she still exuded taste and refinement. It wasn't very often that he spent time with a broad of her fine quality. “Because, once you give me the go-ahead, you realize that you can't take it back, right,” the professional warned her. “And this – what you want me to do – it could get messy. It'll be dangerous. Are you prepared to live with the consequences of your decision... whatever they may be?”  
  
“It's the only way,” she confessed tearfully, biting her full, ripe, rosy lip. He could hear the remorse dampening her voice.   
  
“Alright,” he stood and held out his hand for her to shake. “You have yourself a deal then. Payment is half now upfront and then the other half once the job is done.”  
  
Shocking the hell out of him, the mysterious beauty just smiled, tilting her head to the side. “I know,” she explained her amusement. “This isn't the first contract I've taken out before.”  
  
Five minutes later, his client long gone, he was still speechless.

 

* ~ *

 

Lately, it felt as though her entire life was a human populated zoo. She went from the hospital in the morning and afternoon, an always _oh so pleasant_ place during the holidays – what, between all the burns from baking Christmas cookies to all the melancholy drunks who though it would be a good idea to go jumping into the harbor, to the mall in the evening as she attempted to finish up her shopping list. It amazed Elizabeth that after just a few months in her new hometown and she already had more people to shop for than she had time. But Port Charles was just one of those types of towns. Live there for a week, and it seemed as though everyone knew you, that everyone wanted to be your friend. It was nice... in an overbearing sort of way... and dangerous to her credit card balance.   
  
Driving home from yet another excursion to the stores, Elizabeth tried to mentally tally and calculate just how many more gifts she had left to purchase, just how much more debt she was going to incur. And, as she performed her mental gymnastics, she managed to hum along to the carols which played profusely through her car's sound system, bobbing her head and tapping her fingers rhythmically upon the steering wheel as she kept beat with the cheerful songs. Luckily, the roads were relatively good, because, otherwise, she wouldn't have been able to enjoy the moment nearly as much.   
  
As one song ended and she began her search for yet another holiday jingle, Elizabeth lowered her eyes for just a moment, allowing her sight to guide her fingers to the appropriate knobs upon her radio. Rather than driving her old car across the country when she moved three months prior, she had elected to sell her old one and buy a new used car when she got to New York, but that meant that she wasn't quite used to all the gadgets and gizmos yet. Eventually, though, she located a Christmas song she was capable of singing along with, so, satisfied, she returned to her focused driving only to at the very last moment notice the faint outline of a body crashing through the illumination of her high beams, scaring and causing her to punch her brakes and not release them.   
  
Relatively clear roads or not, it was still December in upstate New York, and the sudden shift in her car's momentum caused it to slide and swerve, fishtail and spin. Before she could readjust, Elizabeth heard the tell-tale screech of her car's vulnerable body colliding with the scraping, grating metal of a guardrail. Sparks erupted like a mini-fireworks display. And then, mere seconds later, it was over. Her car was wrecked, her heart was squished somewhere beneath her boot clad feet upon the coupe's floorboard, and the shadowy figure, the man that she had glimpsed out of the corner of her eye, was gone.   
  
With shaky hands, Elizabeth unbuckled, shoving open her car door despite its damaged protests. For the moment, though, she couldn't focus upon the vehicle's dents and bruises or the steam hissing noticeably under the hood of her still running car. Rather, all she could think about was that she had killed someone, that, in her enthusiasm to give to others, she had taken the most precious thing from a stranger – his life. And it was a man. Faint or not, distracted or not, Elizabeth knew for a fact what she had seen, but, as she rounded her car and looked at the pavement before her, the pavement behind her, the pavement to both sides of her, and even the pavement below her quivering car, there was no body to be found.   
  
Turning wildly, she ran a trembling hand through her thick, tumbled curls. “But I don't... it doesn't... I....”  
  
Before she could finish her thought or, more accurately, actually articulate one of the hundreds forming and then catching upon the tip of her tongue only to languish and die there in the face of her confusion, fear, and sorrow, a harsh voice from behind slapped Elizabeth out of her agitation. “What the hell was that,” the man demanded to know. Whirling to face him, she just stood there, too emotionally paralyzed to respond – her gloved hands hanging limp at her sides, her mouth gaping open in apprehension, her vision clouded by a sheen of fine, hazy tears. “Do you have any idea how dangerous what you just did was? You're lucky to be alive! _I'm_ lucky to be alive! As it is, I ended up sliding by bike on the pavement for several yards to avoid your out-of-control car. I swear, if there is any damage to....”  
  
This time, it was her turn to interrupt him. “Did you see him? Did you see where he ended up?”  
  
Caught off guard by her question, the stranger sputtered, “what? Who?” Narrowing his already lethal, glacial gaze, he glared at her. “This better not have been for some damn stray cat or a rabbit or something.”  
  
“No, no,” she assured him, assured herself. Spinning around, Elizabeth pointed in the direction where she had first seen the jaywalking figure. “He... a man... was there. I saw him.”  
  
“Well, he's not there now.”  
  
“Don't you think I know that,” she bit out acerbically, pivoting in the rude man's direction once more to confront him and his taunting words. “I'm not an idiot, you know.”  
  
“Oh, so, what? You only drive like one.”  
  
With his insolent words, the last of her trepidation and worry disappeared only to be replaced by a blazing fury, her temper ratcheting up to meet his own monumental level of wrath. “Just who the hell do you think you are... to stand here right now and talk to me like this? I just _wrecked_ my car. I _thought_ I had _killed_ someone. Do you have any idea what that feels like, how scary, and traumatizing, and haunting a moment like that is? And you're what – worried about your precious bike? Well, guess what, buddy? It's fine. I'm the one who is either going to have to pay to fix her car out of her own pocket or turn it into my insurance company and pay a premium out of the nose for the next few years. So, yeah,” she finished, realizing that, during her little tirade, she had, for some reason, started to advance forward upon the total stranger and had her hands fisted upon her hips, “if you could manage for just a few minutes to not be a total asshole, I'd really appreciate it.”  
  
“Are you drunk?”  
  
Tilting her head to the side, Elizabeth regarded the man carefully, her eyes narrowed into twin sapphire flames. When she spoke, her voice was cool, brittle, and succinct. “Excuse me?”  
  
“Your little hallucination,” the motorcyclist waved off towards the area in which she had indicated she had seen the fleeing man. “You're either drunk or you're insane.”  
  
“And what does it matter to you?!”  
  
“Well, if you were drunk,” he told her, “I'd call a cab and make sure that you took it home so that you didn't put any more lives in danger this evening.”  
  
“Remind me to nominate you for the local hero award, ass,” she insulted sarcastically. When he said nothing after several quiet moments, she pointedly answered, “no, I'm not drunk. Are you satisfied now?” The stranger shrugged, nodded, and turned to walk away. “Hey!,” Elizabeth yelled after him. “Where the hell do you think you're going?”  
  
“Home.”  
  
“But what about my cab?”  
  
“You're not drunk, and, while being crazy is still dangerous, you're more likely to hurt yourself than anyone else.”  
  
“I'm not crazy,” she defended herself, stomping her foot. Despite the fact that she knew the gesture was immature, Elizabeth couldn't help herself. “There really was a man out there, I swear!”  
  
His only response was to pick up his bike, seemingly straddling it and starting it in the very same gesture, the movement was that smooth and practiced. Seconds later, the man was gone, his fading taillights her only reassurance that he had been there in the first place. Moving back towards her car, Elizabeth found herself recalling the accident, trying to remember every single moment which, just minutes before, she would have sworn would have been emblazoned upon her mind for forever. But, now, the whole ordeal seemed hazy, like a dream. All she could actually think about was how angry the stranger had made her feel, how brutishly rude he was. However, the one thing about the wreck that she was sure about was that there had been someone there; a man had walked out in front of her car. The only questions that remained were: why and where the hell was he now?


	2. Part Two

**Part Two**

 

**Prompt #3: Seeing is believing, but sometimes the most real things in the world are the things we can't see.  
** _**~ The Polar Express** _

 

“You,” Elizabeth accused, shuddered, winced.  
  
When she had heard her doorbell ring moments before, she had been excited. Maybe it was the UPS man running late with a package for her. Perhaps it was a warm-hearted, festive caroler looking to spread their holiday cheer. And it could have even been one of her friends dropping by to share a mug of eggnog and a couple of sugar cookies. So, in her rush to let in her guest – whoever they might be, Elizabeth had eagerly left her task of folding laundry, rushing to the living room where her front door was located.  
  
For someone who was perpetually single and childless, her home was quite large, but it was a family heirloom, a house which had been passed down from generation to generation over the years. When her Grandmother, Audrey, had passed away earlier in the year, she had been surprised to find out that she had inherited the Hardy home. Surprise, though, had quickly bled into appreciation and intimidation, two things that did not blend well together – appreciation because her grandmother had thought so highly of her and because it really was a beautiful, historic house and intimidation because she was going to be responsible for protecting and preserving something that was so important to her entire family.  
  
It was lonely, though – living alone in the legendary Hardy residence. At least while she was still in California, being by herself had not seemed as pathetic. There, instead of a house meant for a family, she had resided in a small, one bedroom apartment, and, there, instead of being surrounded on all sides by boisterous, loving families, her neighbors had been other working singles, people who were just as lonely as she was, and, because of that fact, they, in a way, had somewhat alleviated one another's loneliness.  
  
But craving company or not, the man standing before her was the very last person Elizabeth wanted to see. In fact, she would have preferred her guest to be a door-to-door salesman, a Jehovah's Witness, or even her boss – people no one ever wanted to come around knocking. But, instead, she got stuck with Mr. Personality – the rudest, most conceited, most spiteful guy she had ever met (and she had lived through having to greet _all_ of her sister Sarah's dates in high school), and she didn't even know who the jerk was... not that she really wanted to be on a first name basis with the guy.  
  
“If you're here because you haven't reached your insult quota for the day, thanks but no thanks. You can take your one-man asshole show somewhere else, buddy.”  
  
“Just... shut up,” he ordered her in response.  
  
“Excuse me,” Elizabeth challenged in return, widening her stance, narrowing her gaze, and fisting her hands upon her hips. “Where the hell do you get off, coming to _my_ home and telling me to be quiet... except, wait! You couldn't even be _that_ polite. No, you had to tell me _shut up_.”  
  
The stranger ground hit teeth together. She hoped it was because he had a hemorrhoid and was in pain, but she was pretty sure it was because she pushed his buttons just as much as he pounded on hers. “Look, this is the last place I want to be....”  
  
“Well, that makes two of us, because it's the last place I want you to be right now, too, so why don't you just turn around, go back to your precious motorcycle, and drive away, preferably on the wrong side of the road, and forget that you know where I live.” Her own words triggered a scary thought for Elizabeth. “Wait a second! Just how exactly _do_ you know where I live?”  
  
The jerk shrugged, rolling his eyes... as though she were asking him a stupid question with an obvious answer. “I got your license plate number last night so that I could track you down if there was anything wrong with my bike.”  
  
She frowned, not because his answer didn't make sense or because it was creepy but because it was logical. However, she certainly wasn't going to admit that to the man standing across from her, still blocking her doorway and letting all the warm air skip right on outside. “How resourceful of you, but do you think that you could manage to close the door? Sheesh, were you born in a barn?”  
  
As he did what he was told – a shocking feat in and of itself, the stranger replied, “I don't remember where I was born, but I assume it was in a hospital like everyone else. Why?”  
  
Slack jawed, wide eyed, Elizabeth starred at him. Talk about literal! But he wasn't joking. In fact, he was perfectly serious in his response. Finally, she said, “never mind, there, Rain Man.”  
  
Her verbal sparring partner tossed his arms up in the arm. “You make absolutely no sense whatsoever!”  
  
“Of course I don't. I'm not a mint.”  
  
“Uh,” the jerk groaned, stomping closer to her, but, for every step that he took in her direction, Elizabeth also took a step backwards. Eventually, though, she ran out of room, and she ended up with her back to a wall and his looming figure crowding her, the couch to his right and the tree to his left. Once they were stationary once again, he complained, “this – trying to talk to you – is pointless, so here.” And, with that, he shoved a piece of paper into her fisted hand, prying open her fingers and depositing what appeared to be a check into her grasp before she even realized that he was touching her. “Take this.”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“It's a blank check. For your car. Fix it.”  
  
She could have asked him where his sudden concern had come from (and she still planned to), and she could have argued with his autocratic manner (and she definitely would later), but, first, Elizabeth had to focus on just a single word of his three sentence statement. “Did you just say _blank_?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Exploding, she yelled, “are you stupid?! Have you never seen the movie  Blank Check. I mean, sure, it's a kid's movie, and it's certainly no shining example of cinematic achievement, but, still! Hello, _no one_ gives a stranger a blank check.”  
  
“Do you want the money or not,” he returned, ignoring all her charges against his intelligence and common sense.  
  
Immediately, she replied, “no, I don't want your charity.” Lifting her hand up and shoving the check against his leather covered chest, she waited... and waited... and waited some more for the guy to take the scrap of paper back from her, and, when he wouldn't, she just allowed it to flutter to the floor, instantaneously forgotten in their battle of wills.  
  
“But you were complaining about how much it was going to cost you to fix your car.”  
  
“Yeah, and so would anyone else in my position, but that does not mean that I was jockeying for a handout... especially from someone like you.”  
  
The stranger bristled. Though he didn't seem insulted, he did seem suddenly wary of her. “What's that supposed to mean?”  
  
“It means that you treated me like crap last night. I was scared, and upset, and you came up and, first, accused me of being drunk, and then, when you realized that I was perfectly sober, you told me that I was crazy. And let's not forget your Pièce de résistance: you left me out in the middle of the nowhere at night with a busted car, a mysterious jaywalker who could have been a mass murder for all you knew, and no cell phone.”  
  
“I never saw anybody, and how the hell was I supposed to know you didn't have a cell phone?”  
  
“ _That's_ the part you focus on,” Elizabeth screamed back at him. Shaking she was so livid, she closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. Once she felt as though she had a handle once more upon her temper, she looked back up at the guy before her. “Why are you here?”  
  
He answered her question like she was a child with severe learning disabilities. “To give you the check.”  
  
“ _Why_ , though,” she persisted.  
  
Shuffling his boot clad feet, pinching the bridge of his nose, and avoiding her eyes, he mumbled, “because my best friend told me to.”  
  
Elizabeth couldn't help it; she laughed. “ _You –_ the biggest asshole I have ever met in my entire life – came here because someone _told_ you to? Oh, that's priceless.”  
  
“Hey, you have no idea what that woman is like,” he said in response, raising his own voice. “She's persistent, and loud, and sometimes even self-righteous. She's insane!”  
  
“Oh, you mean like me?”  
  
Although she meant for it to be a pointed, accusatory remark, the man across from her simply contemplated the statement for the span of about a second and then nodded his head in agreement. “Now that you mention it, yeah, the two of you are quite a bit alike. Huh.”  
  
“Oh, that's it,” Elizabeth exploded. Pushing against the solid wall of his chest, she tried to dislodge the stranger from her presence. With every shove, though, he simply sidestepped her. Nevertheless, she followed, yelling the entire time. “Get out of my house. Stay out of my life. If you ever see me again, turn around and walk – no, run – the other way. In fact, forget that you ever met me at all, because, let me tell you, I'd have my entire mind erased if it meant exorcising you from my memory. You have to be the most hateful, chauvinistic, despica... Oh my god!”  
  
In horror, she watched as her mammoth seven foot, completely decorated tree fell backwards, the ogre before her stepping into it and knocking it over. However, before she could adjust to the sounds of antique glass ornaments shattering, her magnificent white pine tree practically combusted, its entire length being destroyed by flames almost instantaneously.  
  
In the back of her mind, she heard the stranger yelling at her – telling her to call for help, to get away from the fire, to snap the hell out of it already, but Elizabeth couldn't move. Her mind was simply too stuck upon the fact that her Christmas tree had burnt and it was catching her grandmother's beloved living room on fire. But how? Oh, she knew that Christmas trees were fire hazards, but her wiring was up to date, all her lights had been new that year, and there wasn't even a fire lit in the room's hearth. There was absolutely no logical reason for the flames licking ever closer towards her sofa, her wooden floors, the wrapped presents she had so artfully arranged beneath her tree. In fact, a part of her was even questioning if her tree had somehow been moved closer to the couch. She could have sworn that it had been further away, closer to the corner of the room, but trees didn't have legs, and she had been the only person in her house all day long... right?  
  
Distracting her from her thoughts, she felt two strong, rough hands grab ahold of her shoulders, pushing her backwards and out of the way. Shaking her head, she cleared her cloudy mind only to realize that the fire had been put out, and the man who was so carelessly moving her was coatless. Once they stopped their retreat, she looked up and asked, “where's your leather jacket? Don't think that you're staying long enough to get comfortable, buddy!”  
  
“My coat is on your floor, burnt... along with your tree, because I had to use it to put out _your_ fire.”  
  
“Hey, you were the one who didn't watch where you were going, you were the one who knocked my tree over in the first place,” she countered. “There wouldn't have been a fire in the first place if you wouldn't have been such a damn klutz.”  
  
“No, there wouldn't have been a fire if _you_ wouldn't have had a candle lit next to your Christmas tree.”  
  
Confusion shook her to the core, and Elizabeth literally rocked back on her feet as though she had been physically attacked. “What are you talking about? I didn't put a candle next to my tree, and I certainly didn't light one either.”  
  
The stranger smirked. “Sure you didn't, Elizabeth.” Shaking his head in dismissal, in frustration, he simply turned around and walked out of her house.  
  
She tried to call after him, to thank him for putting out the fire and sacrificing his jacket to do so even if she knew for a fact that the blaze wasn't her fault and that his big, lumbering body was partly responsible for the accident, but he refused to listen to her and simply ignored her efforts. Not that she was sad to see him leave, but, truth be told, she did feel somewhat bad about how she had treated him. Heavy handed or not, the fact that he had made the gesture to help her out wasn't entirely... evil. And, sure, the guy was still rude, mean, and impossibly arrogant... and oh so not in a good way, but her house was still standing, and she was still alive. That counted... for something. She just wasn't sure what yet.  
  
Picking up the scrap of paper on the floor – the stranger's check which he had never picked back up, Elizabeth looked down to see what the man's name was.  
  
Jason Morgan.  
  
Pocketing the check, she turned and headed for the kitchen where she kept her cleaning supplies. She had a living room to right and amends to make. She'd start with the easier of the two first, though. 


	3. Part Three

**Part Three  
  
** Prompt #5: I TRIPLE-dog-dare ya!  
 __~ A Christmas Story  
  
It was like spiders crawling up her back; someone's unexpected, warm breath sending goosebumps rippling across the skin of her neck; a moment of haunting deja-vu that was impossible to forget. No matter what she told herself, Elizabeth couldn't shake the idea that someone was following her. As she went about her evening errands, she felt a constant presence tailing her. Although she never actually saw someone lurking in the shadows, the ominous feeling was enough to ruin her mood and make her feel scared. And the last thing she needed on that particular night was a case of paranoid nerves. After all, she was about to go into the lion's den, and Elizabeth knew she would need all her wits about her to escape the event unscathed.  
  
A woman just did not confront – and certainly did not apologize to – Jason Morgan while frightened.  
  
The man was unrelenting in his frosty demeanor and unforgiving in his cocky attitude. One ounce of fear, and he'd sense her coming from a mile away, ready to pounce and devour her whole in just a single pointed, barked barb. No, if she was going to conquer the task before her – lowering herself enough to be the bigger person, accepting at least partial culpability for the unlikely, unlucky events which had thrown them together not once but twice, and graciously offering a gesture of peace towards the insufferable asshole, then she'd have to go up to his penthouse apartment all guns blazing, all cylinders firing, and with all her wits gathered securely about her. After appearing as though she were a crazy drunk the first time they met, and then projecting the image of a classic, dim-witted ditz the second, Elizabeth was determined to be nothing less than intelligent, collected, and resourceful the third – _and final –_ time she and her hated acquaintance crossed paths.  
  
But, apparently, her own mind was betraying her by playing head games and making her think that someone was tailing her every step. As she crossed the street outside of Harbor View Towers, electing to walk through downtown to complete her errands rather than drive her car and fight the three days until Christmas holiday traffic, she decided to glance over her shoulder just one more time, not because she was paranoid but just to reassure herself. And that's when she would have sworn that she saw the very same guy who had jumped in front of her car two nights prior, causing her to wreck, slipping through the crowd and moving quickly in the opposite direction as though he were fleeing from something... or someone.  
  
However, as soon as she blinked, the mysterious, creepy guy was gone. Turning desperately to the people hustling and bustling by around her, Elizabeth queried, “did anybody see that man?” No one listened, no one even paid her any attention at all, but that didn't stop her from pressing, “he was probably five-eight, five-nine. Average size. He had dark hair, a dark briefcase.” Twisting, turning, and, in general, making a nuisance of herself in the busy crosswalk, Elizabeth pleaded with someone to reassure her that she wasn't going crazy. “He was wearing a trench coat. And a hat. It was pulled down and to the side, like how those classic detectives from the 40's used to look in the....”  
  
Her words trailed off as she realized how ridiculous she sounded. What she was describing was the cliched look of a private eye, and there was no way, no how, no reason for someone like that to be following her of all people. She was just a nurse at General Hospital, someone who had moved to town a few months back because her grandmother passed away and she had inherited the family home. She voted. She drove the speed limit. Hell, she even carried old Mrs. McClintock's groceries in for her once a week. She was boring!  
  
“Okay,” she physically forced herself to relax, taking a deep breath. “Stop acting like a schizo already. This is no way to one-up and beat Jason Morgan at his own game.” Resolutely, Elizabeth nodded her head and finished crossing the intersection, pausing on the other side to smooth down her hair, rearrange and straighten her winter coat, and double check to make sure that the price tag was off of the lone item occupying her one shopping bag. Satisfied that she was ready to woman up and face the demon who lived on top of Harbor View Towers, she strode purposely into the highrise, luxury tower, commandeered an elevator, and rode upwards to the penthouse level and her imminent victory. Even if Jason wasn't aware of the fact that the two of them were locked in a major battle of wills, he had a fight on his hands that Elizabeth was determined he would lose.  
  
But, when she arrived before his front door and knocked, no one answered. And, when she knocked a little harder, even going so far as to yell for the egotistical animal who resided in penthouse two, she was still greeted with silence. So, finally, desperate to get her errand over with and unwilling to have to go through the hassle of bolstering her confidence and making the trip across town twice in two days, Elizabeth resorted to kicking, her foot landing solidly upon the unmovable wooden door.  
  
“Just. Open. Up. Already. Jerkface!,” she demanded, punctuating each word with another blow by boot. “I know you don't like me, and, trust me, I'm perfectly aware of the fact that I hate you, but I'm trying to be the bigger person here; I'm trying to apologize, so just let me in, so we can get this done with.” With one last heroic effort, she walloped the door while yelling acerbically, “ _please?_ ,” only to stumble back, slip, and trip over her own clumsy feet.  
  
Only she didn't fall. Instead, she landed against a hard, unmoving, vibrating chest... and the vibrating certainly wasn't because Jason Morgan was happy to see her.  
  
Really, she was starting to think he might have some rage issues....  
  
Unwilling to turn around, she just cringed in anticipation of whatever it was that was going to come out of the hulking ogre's mouth. “What in the hell,” he sniped caustically, “are you doing here?”  
  
Wincing, Elizabeth offered cheekily, “uh... Merry Christmas?”  
  
Pushing past her, he unlocked the snow splattered, boot battered door, passing into his home without offering her an invitation to follow or waiting to see if she would. She did. “Um... sorry about the door,” she offered uncertainly, shrugging her shoulders. “I thought you were avoiding me.”  
  
“Obviously,” Jason replied, tossing his keys upon his desk. Just as she was about to start looking around the sparsely decorated penthouse, he ordered, “answer my question.” Locking her gaze upon him, Elizabeth flinched at the unyielding way his arms were crossed over his chest... his leather jacket wearing chest.  
  
“Hey,” she hollered at him, glowering. “What's with the coat?”  
  
Inanely, he offered, “it's December,” by way of explanation.  
  
“No, I mean, you made a big deal yesterday about how the mysterious circumstances surrounding my tree catching on fire ruined your precious leather jacket.”  
  
“So what? I had another one. You made a big deal about your car being wrecked.”  
  
“Uh, hello,” Elizabeth remarked sarcastically. “My car was a little bit more important than your stupid coat, and it's not like I had a spare car just waiting for me at home... like you obviously did with your jacket there.”  
  
He shrugged.  
  
He _shrugged_.  
  
That's it. That's all. That's the only response Jason Morgan offered in his defense.  
  
Remembering the shopping bag in her hand, Elizabeth didn't pause for a second to consider her actions before she launched the entire thing in the boorish man's direction, hoping that one of its sharp corners would catch him in his smug face and cause him to lose an eye... even if they were all bright blue and disgustingly sparkly, the big, annoying, conceited jerk! Alas, though, he ducked, and the bag and the jacket it contained landed ineffectually upon the leather couch situated behind her sparring partner.  
  
“That's for you,” she said. “Naive me felt bad that you were walking around without a coat, so I went out and bought you an exact replica of the one that got burnt, much to my credit report's dismay, only to find out, lo and behold, that you have an entire freaking closet of leather jackets at your disposal.”  
  
“I don't have an entire closet of leather jackets,” Jason refuted. “I had two. Now, I have three. Thanks... I guess?”  
  
Tapping her foot and wiggling slighty, she accused, “you're an asshole.”  
  
“You okay,” he asked, titling his head to the side, observing her warily.  
  
“No, I hate you, I'm mad at myself, and I have to pee. It's the whole rapid change of temperatures thing. Can I use your bathroom?”  
  
“No,” he replied staunchly without further explanation.  
  
“What,” Elizabeth asked in response. “You're not seriously going to deny me the chance to go pee, are you?” Tossing her hands up in the air, she remarked, “you're acting like a ridiculous child, right now.”  
  
“I'm not the one who had a hissy fit out in the hallway and then threw a bag at someone's head.”  
  
If she didn't have to go the bathroom so bad, Elizabeth would have laughed at Jason Morgan of all piggish men saying the words 'hissy fit,' but the truth of the matter was that, if she didn't get inside of a bathroom soon, she was going to have an accident. So much for showing the man across from her that she was smarter and more poised than he was under pressure!  
  
“Look, either let me use your bathroom, or I'm going to make a mess all over your pretty wood floors.”  
  
In answer, he turned his back on her.  
  
“Fine,” Elizabeth yelled, dashing up the penthouse's stairs despite the fact that she had been offered no invitation to do so. But, as soon as her foot stepped upon the fourth riser, she tipped backwards, the board beneath her just a second before obviously loose. At the very last second, she managed to twist her body around so that she didn't land on her back, but, still, when her form hit the hard floor of the apartment, she felt her ankle wretch in the wrong direction, instantly sprained. Suddenly, with tears in her eyes, the last thing on her mind was using the bathroom.  
  
Hobbling up without the assistance of or even the offer of help from the man standing across the room from her, she said, “hey, I'm alright over here. Don't worry about me... even though I could have just died because of your rickety stairs.”  
  
“There's nothing wrong with my steps,” Jason returned.  
  
“Ha! Just wait until you trip on the warped riser and fall on your ass.”  
  
“Your ass is fine,” he said in reply, smirking. “Trust me. I watched it the entire time.”  
  
“Whatever, asshole,” Elizabeth murmured, more to herself than to him. Maybe if she hadn't been in pain, she would have paid more attention to what had been said to her, what he had said about her and a certain part of her anatomy, but she was too distracted and uncomfortable to care about their little battle of wills in that moment.  
  
Standing up, she tried to walk as proudly as she could out of the penthouse, her back ramrod straight even if she was limping slightly. “Hey, I thought you had to use the bathroom,” the jerk behind her taunted. She could hear the mirth salting __and peppering his words.   
  
“I'd rather piss myself,” she answered back.  
  
His laughter mocked her all the way to the elevator. 


	4. Part Four

**Part Four  
  
** Prompt #7: It is Christmas in the heart that puts Christmas in the air.  
 _~ W.T. Ellis  
  
_ Weren't holidays supposed to be a time of good will and cheer; of warm wishes, and nice thoughts, and glad tidings? So, why was it that, for the past three days, Jason had found himself getting yelled at constantly? If it wasn't from his best friend attacking him for being such a heartless bastard – her words not his, then it was from the barracuda whose door he was about to foolishly knock on – __again – after he had oh-so-wisely promised himself that he would never step foot upon Elizabeth Webber's doorstep again. Being in the crazy woman's presence was simply too dangerous... and that was coming from a man who had once counted train surfing as his favorite past time.  
  
First, her erratic driving had nearly caused him to destroy his treasured motorcycle. As it was, the bike had quite a few scratches on it that were still waiting to be buffed out. Then, after insanely listening to his best friend's advice, he had come to the banshee's house to offer to pay for the damage to her car only to be screamed at, forced to put out a fire with his favorite, most worn-in leather jacket, and he was pretty sure made fun of as well. Finally, there was also their confrontation the day before at his penthouse. Oh, he couldn't forget about that charming scene! His _reinforced_ door had barely survived the brunette's visit, a bag had been chucked at his head, and, somehow, the klutz had managed to break a step – a nailed down, one inch thick, solid oak riser.  
  
Needless to say, Elizabeth Webber was a walking, talking – no, make that bitching – accident on legs... really nice, shapely legs, but, still a headache. No, make that a fucking migraine! What was worse, though, was that he was, quite obviously, a push-over pansy, because how else could he explain the fact that he had been brow-beaten and annoyed into actually apologizing to and making a grand gesture towards the crazy bimbo not just once but _twice_?  
  
He really needed some new friends.  
  
Taking a bracing inhalation, he released it in one short, sharp burst of determination, his breath billowing and condensing into a temporary cloud before dissolving into the frigid, December air. But, still, Jason didn't knock. Rather, he shuffled on his feet for several seconds, avoiding the unavoidable. While he could simply turn back around and walk away from Elizabeth Webber's house, one way or another, if he did so, his best friend would find out, and then he'd really be in for it. No, it was better to take his punishment now from the brunette firecracker on the other side of the antique, lead glass door than it would be to go back home and confess his failure in making amends with the nurse.  
  
Resolve buffeted against the overwhelming sense of dread he was experiencing that evening, Jason raised his hand, fisted his glove-less fingers, and pounded out his request for admittance, the force of his actions causing the glass in the front door to rattle. He was startled, though, when not even a second later, he heard a voice yelling at him through the closed entranceway.  
  
“I know you're out there, Jason Morgan, but you're not coming in!”  
  
Well, that he certainly had not been expecting. “Why not,” he demanded to know. Already, he felt as though there were eyes upon him, watching as the woman inside of the house forced him to make a scene. And he hated that – being conspicuous. He had learned quite quickly after waking up from his coma with no memory that, in life, it was better to fade into the background rather than do anything to make yourself stand out from the crowd.  
  
“Because every time we're around one another, something bad happens to me,” Elizabeth responded. “First, my car was wrecked. Then my tree caught on fire. Then I....”  
  
“Yeah, I get the picture,” he interrupted her, snorting in frustration. It was typical of the infuriating woman to gloss over the fact that everything bad that had happened to her was her own goddamned fault, and, of course, she would completely ignore the suffering _he_ had experienced by being so temporarily acquainted with her. “Look, if you don't open this door, I'll just let myself in.”  
  
“Ha! Shows what you know. I locked it,” she bragged smugly.  
  
“And do you really think your pesky, little lock could keep me out if I really wanted to come inside,” he countered. “Which I don't, by the way,” he quickly added just in case she got the wrong idea, “but, if I leave here without accomplishing what I set out to do, my life is going to be miserable for the foreseeable future.”  
  
“Aw, is the best friend _bothering_ you again, telling big bad Jason Morgan what he has to do or else?”  
  
“Elizabeth,” he warned when he could hear her snickering through the still closed front door. “I'm quickly losing my patience here.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I've lost my Christmas spirit, so I think I'm winning this war.”  
  
“What war,” he asked, tossing his hands up in bafflement. “And, for that matter, what in the hell is Christmas spirit anyway?”  
  
“If you have to ask, you're obviously a born Ebeneezer.”  
  
Through his teeth, he gritted out, “I don't know what that means.”  
  
As the door swung open before him, Elizabeth remarked, “I swear, I've never met a grown man who was so obviously dropped on his head _one hundred_ times too many as a baby.” Cocking her hips in perturbation, she inquired, “what the hell do you want _this time_ , Jason? Do you want to sabotage my oven so that all my Christmas cookies end up burnt and inedible? Do you want to tear down my mantle with your bare hands so that I have nowhere to hang my Christmas stocking with care this year? Do you want to....”  
  
“What I _want_ to do,” he interjected, stopping her mid-ramble, “is to take this gaudy, _Christmas_ wreath that you have hanging on your door and wrap it around your scrawny little neck so that maybe, for just five minutes, you'd stop talking for once!”  
  
“First of all,” she argued, “my wreath is _not_ gaudy, and, secondly, that wasn't a bad comeback, Morgan. I mean, it lacked finesse, and you didn't use any pop culture references, but, still, it was better than your cave-man stare or your 'me man, you woman, so shut up' routine.”  
  
He starred at her, mouth hanging wide open, perfectly aware of the fact that he resembled a fish more than any self-respecting man had a right to but incapable of hiding his astonishment. “You are the most confounding woman I have ever met... and I'm friends with....”  
  
“Yeah, whatever, I don't care about your personal life,” Elizabeth waved off his remark, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Shut the door already, Fred. This Wilma isn't paying her outrageous heating bill to warm the _outside_ of her home.”  
  
He obeyed, not quite sure why he was acting so docilely but willing to make the concession if it meant getting their fourth _and final_ meeting over with just that much faster. Plus, he had a feeling, if he didn't do as he was told, the maddening ditz would insist upon explaining exactly who Fred was and why she called herself Wilma of all names, and, frankly, he couldn't care less about the people in her personal life either.  
  
“Now, once more from the top, why are you here, Morgan?”  
  
It was like they were actors rehearsing a play, stuck on the very same scene over and over again. Pulling a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his leather jacket – for some reason beyond him he had actually worn the one the brunette had bought him to replace his burnt coat, Jason handed her his explanation for dropping by unannounced. Uninvited. Unwelcome.  
  
“Oh, would you look at this,” Elizabeth remarked brightly - too brightly, in fact, making him know that whatever came out of her seemingly constantly flapping mouth next would not be good. “Another check. What a shocker! Boy, you really are a man full of surprises, you know that?” Switching tones, her fake cheer being displaced by malice and accusation, she spoke softly, the lower volume making him realize just how irate she really was. “Do you have any idea how insulting it is that, every time you try to apologize to me, you offer me money? I don't care how poor you think I am or how rich you appear to be, I don't want to be bought off, Jason. If you feel bad about something, then say 'I'm sorry, Elizabeth.' Don't emotionlessly shove a check into my hands when I know that the money means nothing to you which, in turn, means that your oh-so-big gesture also means crap.”  
  
“But you bought me this jacket,” he returned in defense, plucking the suddenly offensive leather that resided against his chest. “How is that any...” but his words were forgotten when he felt a cool, wet slash upon his nose. “What the hell?” Glancing up, another drop of moisture landed in his eye, making Jason blink rapidly against the unexpected water. “I think your roof is leaking.”  
  
“What, that's impossible,” the woman across from him automatically dismissed. “My Grams was completely anal about this house. Everything was in perfect condition when she died and passed it down to me. Maybe being in my presence makes you nervous and you started to sweat profusely,” she suggested. “Or maybe you finally realized what a ginormous ass you are and, and, against your will, your body betrayed you and actually managed to shed a few tears. Yet again, you'd have to be human to cry... which you're obviously not, and whatever species of jerk you are probably doesn't even possess tear ducts or a heart for....”  
  
“Elizabeth, shut up,” he yelled at her, his abrupt, verbal attack finally capturing her fleeting attention. “Your. Roof. Is. Leaking.”  
  
“Shit,” she yelled, spinning around on her sock-clad feet and sprinting towards the kitchen. “Be right back!”  
  
While she was gone, he stepped out of the way of the dripping, only to find himself still under attack by melting snow. Contemplating the outside of house and trying to figure out exactly where he could stand without running the risk of being pelted by ice-cold drops of moisture, Jason recalled that only a portion of the home's ground floor was situated below the second story, that the living room was just one portion of the large Victorian which was not covered by another two levels. And that's when he started to hear the sound of continuous dripping, but it wasn't just one leak causing the mess but, instead, so many that he couldn't count the nuisances.  
  
In was in that moment that Elizabeth reappeared with just a single kitchen pot. “What in the hell...,” her words trailed off as she walked into the room, her feet immediately becoming soaked as the fabric of her socks absorbed the moisture quickly gathering in pools upon the living room's hardwood floors. “This isn't good, is it,” she asked, and he could hear the fear, and the sorrow, and the heartache in her voice. It was obvious that her house meant a lot to her.  
  
Before he could answer, there was a loud groan from above them. Without thought, Jason dove across the space which separated him from the annoying brunette, tackling and rolling on top of her just before the roof collapsed on top of them, his body shielding hers from the deluge of hard packed snow, shingles, and thick beams which landed none too gently inside of the living room. After several minutes, he felt Elizabeth push against his chest, and he slowly stood up.  
  
With a hand extended in her direction to help her stand as well, he looked upon a face he had expected to be tearful and, instead, found roiling, white-hot rage. Quickly, he backed away from the woman who suddenly resembled a coiled snake, his hands going up before him in meaningless defense. “I don't know what the hell your problem is with me now, but this is....”  
  
“Oh, this is _so_ your fault,” Elizabeth countered, launching her bitter words at him like they were grenades. “I don't know how you did it – maybe all that pounding you subjected my front door to earlier, but, before you showed up here this evening, my house was perfectly alright. No, scratch that,” she amended her own statement. “My house was perfectly perfect! But, now, __now , thanks to you, the entire ceiling of my living room is a freaking skylight, and skylights are not historically accurate for turn-of-the century Victorians, Morgan!”  
  
Sighing, Jason admitted that she was right – not about the roof collapsing being his fault but that authentic Victorians did not have skylights. And then he sighed again, because, without even having to talk to his best friend, he knew that the barracuda, no matter how sharp her claws, couldn't stay in her house that night, especially not alone. So, morosely resigned to what he had to do next, he lowered his head and advanced in the shrieking woman's direction. Before she could even react to his approach, he had her scooped up and tossed over his shoulder, her butt in the air, her legs kicking out in front of him, and her hands pounding him in the small of the back right exactly where his kidneys were.  
  
Elizabeth screamed the entire way to his penthouse.


	5. Part Five

**Part Five  
  
** Prompt #9: Um Dasher, Dasher... Prancer... Nixon, Comet, Cupid... Donna Dixon?  
Sit down, Simpson.  
 __~ The Simpsons  
  
She wanted to wake the jerkface up, because she needed to talk to him, but Elizabeth also didn't want to see any more of Jason Morgan's bare skin than that which she was forced to look at on his stupid, conceited, annoyingly handsome face. So, that was why she was tiptoeing into his bedroom. That was why she was carefully easing his door open. That was why she was holding her breath. And that was why she nearly leapt out of her own skin when, no more than two steps into the large, nearly empty room, Jason Morgan coldly, emotionlessly threatened her life.  
  
With his eyes still closed, he warned, “move even an inch and I'll blow your entire fucking foot off.”  
  
Okay, so maybe not her life....  
  
To cement his words in her mind, he lifted a large, gleaming-in-the-fresh, crisp-light-of-dawn, and deadly handgun and angled it, without even looking, towards her feet. She would have flinched if she hadn't of been so scared that he really would shoot her. After all, looking at the asshole's track record where she was concerned – abandonment, torture, mayhem, destruction, and, of course, she couldn't forget kidnapping, a little handgun violence definitely fit his MO. But, still, she liked to live in the land of denial. Plus, kidnapped or not initially, when it came down to the nuts and bolts of the situation, she had voluntarily elected to spend the night at the neanderthal's penthouse rather than checking into a hotel the night before, and she didn't want to think that her judgement was so off that she would willingly spend time with someone who slept with a gun beside them.  
  
So, with that in mind, she tentatively asked, “that's a water gun – a really realistic looking, accurate, scary water gun, but, still, harmless... right? You wouldn't actually shoot someone just because they walked into your bedroom? I mean, who lives like that, right?”  
  
The more she spoke, the more she watched the tension flow out of the pig's arm. Eventually, he lowered the _water_ gun, dropping it to rest beside him on the navy blue sheet. Cracking his eyes open, he demanded, “what the hell do you want, Webber? It's seven in the morning, and you didn't stop your caterwauling last night until late. _Really, really_ late.”  
  
Taking his response for the invitation it so obviously was, Elizabeth unfroze her stance and continued her way into the frustrating man's bedroom. Taking a seat on the opposite side of his bed, making sure that no part of her body was even close to touching any part of his, she crossed her legs and pulled the loose side of the covers up around her chilled shoulders. Someone, in their infinite amount of wisdom, had decided to kidnap her the night before without packing an overnight bag, leaving her pajama-less and causing her to have to borrow a t-shirt of his to sleep in.  
  
“Someone's following me, and you're going to help me figure out who it is and why.”  
  
Jason sighed, shaking his head in irritation as he pushed himself up into a sitting position, his back – his very __bare back – leaning against his wide, sturdy headboard. “Look, I thought we covered this already. You're just paranoid.”  
  
“Does a paranoid person – with a previously perfect driving record, I might add – wreck her car because she sees someone run out in front of her?”  
  
“Yes,” he said simply, nodding his head emphatically.  
  
“And does a paranoid person who is a self-proclaimed Christmas freak and very territorial and protective of her Christmas traditions, including her tree, really put it in such an awkward position where it could be knocked over by a lumbering goon? And would this same self-proclaimed Christmas freak ever light a candle by her beloved, perfect, nearly-a-work-of-art-it's-decorated-so-well Christmas tree?”  
  
“Apparently so,” the jerk mumbled impatiently.  
  
“And does a paranoid person with 20/20 vision see that very same man who caused her to wreck her car two days after their said accident while walking in front of her arch-nemesis' apartment building in a dark hat and trench coat like he was up to no good?”  
  
“A trench coat? Really,” he mocked her.  
  
“And would a paranoid person who can walk in six inch heels without batting a lash really trip on a perfectly intact riser?” Before he could respond, she held up a hand to prevent him. “No, I don't think so, Jason. And finally, and here's the real kick in the pants for your theory: does a paranoid person really receive a phone call on Christmas Eve morning from her insurance adjuster, telling her that her roof had been tampered with and that's why it collapsed?”  
  
For the first time that morning, the asshole actually looked at her with something besides mocking derision and intolerance in his gaze. “Run that by me again,” he requested of her.  
  
Becoming excited, for he was finally seeing the light she had been hitting him over the head with for days, Elizabeth forgot her chilled modesty, letting go of the blankets, and turned to face the insufferable man beside her, sitting up on her knees so she could lean forward. “Someone messed with my roof. They loosened shingles, warped the boards, I don't know... whatever people do to make a roof collapse, but the point is, Jason, that I'm not paranoid as you've been claiming this whole time. Someone is really after me. In fact, I'm starting to wonder if this has something to do with you, too.”  
  
Immediately, she could see him close down on her. His posture became guarded, his shoulders curving in upon themselves, and his eyes – previously bright and brilliant with interest and an openness she would have otherwise appreciated if it had been from anyone besides the ogre sitting with her – became shuttered. “What's that supposed to mean?”  
  
Carefully, she responded, unsure of the obvious landmine she had suddenly found herself traipsing across. “It means that, every time something has happened to me, I've been with you, around you. It means that I think, whoever is targeting me, is targeting you as well.”  
  
“So, you don't think this is my fault?”  
  
Confused by his question, Elizabeth cocked her head to the side, observing him narrowly as she responded. “Why the hell would you ask me that, Jason? Sure, it would have been nice if you would have believed me sooner rather than just dismissing me as some crazy, neurotic woman... which, by the way, makes me really wonder about the women you've dated in the past and what they've been like.”  
  
Avoiding her gaze, he mumbled, “I'm not exactly the dating type.”  
  
“Well, please tell me you're not a eunuch, because personality from hell our not, some mute, deaf, and dumb woman out there would surely appreciate what you physically bring to the table.”  
  
The asshole smirked. “The table, huh? While I've never attempted that location before, I'm game if you are.”  
  
Elizabeth immediately became flustered. Blushing, she avoided looking at his face, biting her lip. “Focus, Fido. We're talking about a crazed lunatic who's after us here, not your unrealistic fantasies.”  
  
“Hey, I wasn't the one who brought up sex on a table.”  
  
“And I wasn't talking literally,” she exploded, glaring at him. “And I sure as hell wasn't talking about you and me... doing that... together, buckaroo!”  
  
“What were you talking about,” he inquired.  
  
Tossing her hands up in vexation, Elizabeth groaned as though she were in pain. After all, spending five minutes alone with Jason Morgan was all it took for her brain to start to hurt... and not because he challenged her mentally but because he was so freaking mentally challenged himself sometimes. Once she was finished throwing her mini-tantrum, she said, “I was talking about someone being after us and about you helping me track down the little weasel and put an end to this madness.”  
  
“So, then we'd never have to see each other again?”  
  
“Or speak to each other, or think about one another, or acknowledge that the other even actually exists ever again.”  
  
“Sounds good to me,” the jerk commented, pushing back his covers and standing up, lifting his arms over his head to crack his shoulders before rotating at the waist and making his back pop as well. If she wasn't so distracted by the fact that the man slept in the freaking nude, she would have told him he was going to have arthritis someday if he kept that particular morning routine up. But up was a dangerous word in that moment, and Elizabeth was too embarrassed, flabbergasted, and pissed off at his brazen behavior to care if the beastly man became a cripple in his distant future.  
  
“Jesus Christ, Morgan! Would you put some damn pants on already. Sheesh! Aren't you cold?”  
  
“No, not really,” he responded, pivoting around to head into his en suite bathroom.  
  
Before he left, though, she had certainly gotten enough of an eye full to know that the selfish prick wasn't lying. “Apparently not,” she mumbled to herself, tossing the covers aside and standing up.  
  
Suddenly, she was chilly either.

 

* ~ *

 

As Elizabeth went about her usual Christmas Eve activities – last minute shopping, a visit at the local shelter to volunteer for a few hours, and then to church, Jason followed her, hoping to catch whoever it was who was after her – _them –_ red handed. At least, that had been the plan. However, as soon as the two of them left his building, barely thirty seconds separating their planned departures, he had immediately discovered the brunette's tail, which made him wonder just how much sooner the two of them could have been put of their mutual misery if he had just taken her at her word that first night and been a little bit more observant.  
  
But it was too late for looking back, and Jason wasn't the type of man to live his life by thinking about the 'what if's' and the 'might have been's,' so he pushed away his thoughts, removed his weapon from where it was tucked into the waistband of his jeans, and cocked the glock in the harassing man's ear. Calling out for Elizabeth, he yelled, “you can turn around now. I already have the guy.”  
  
As soon as she did what she was told, she immediately started to berate him. “Enough with the damn water gun already, Morgan. Just... punch him or something; don't squirt him to death.”  
  
He knew she was being purposefully obtuse. Uncomfortable with the fact that he carried a handgun, she was simply lying to herself that it was harmless. He had hoped that he could put off the revelation of who he really was for a while, because it was rather nice to have her hate him because of who he was rather than for what he did, but, at the same time, it wasn't fair for her to be in his presence and, in connection, be in danger unwittingly. “Elizabeth,” he sighed, still making sure his target was secured and no longer a threat to the annoying, talkative, unbelievably feisty woman before him. “My name is Jason _Morgan_. Doesn't that mean anything to you?”  
  
“Nooo...,” she responded slowly. He felt her gaze rake over him carefully. “Should it? I mean, I know you have money. Duh. You live in a freaking penthouse, but you're not famous or something, are you?”  
  
“In a way, yes, but not in the traditional manner,” he revealed. “This gun,” he nodded towards the cocked weapon, “is real. My _freaking_ penthouse is bulletproof. I'm in the _importing and exporting_ business... if you know what I mean.”  
  
She blanched, but she also didn't say anything. Instead, it was the wheelchair bound creep which had been following her who spoke up. “What are you, new to this town? Jason runs the local mob! Before, it was Sonny Corinthos' territory, but when the former godfather of Port Charles went poof from a car bomb, his right hand man here took over, and, from this P.I.'s perspective, he's been doing a marvelous job with the territory so far.”  
  
Seemingly clinging to the least scary piece of information the stranger revealed, Elizabeth yelled victoriously, “ha! I knew you were a freaking private dick!”  
  
Jason sniggered at her choice of words momentarily before sobering and knocking his weapon into the invalid's temple a few times. “Who the hell hired you, Mr...?  
  
“Spinelli, Damien Spinelli.”  
  
This time, it was Elizabeth's turn to laugh. “You're seriously going to pull the James Bond introduction line when you're practically wearing a full-body cast?”  
  
Ignoring her ribbing, Jason remarked slowly, “Mr. Spinelli, I'm still waiting for an answer to my question.  
  
“Brenda Barrett-Corinthos,” the geek blurted out hastily.  
  
“Brenda,” he and Elizabeth exclaimed at the exact same time. If he wasn't so surprised by the fact that the confounding brunette knew his best friend, his former partner's widow, he would have laughed at how nervous the PI was in his presence and wondered if he had pissed his pants.  
  
Turning towards Elizabeth, he demanded, “how do you know Brenda?”  
  
“She's my friend,” the infuriating woman said obliquely. Eventually, upon prompting from his glare, she continued, “I work at the hospital. She's on the board of directors. We met. Bonded. Had lunch a few times.” Shifting her attention to the wheelchair bound man, she queried, “why the hell would Brenda send you after me? This makes no sense whatsoever!”  
  
Her confusion, though, was rapidly morphing itself into an anger that could have rivaled his own.  
  
“While I would be happy to answer any and all of your questions, the simple truth of the matter is that Ms. Barrett-Corinthos hired me to set the two of you up. I was to use any and all means necessary to accomplish this feat.” Before either he or Elizabeth could interrupt, the private detective sputtered on quickly, “but, surely, in this moment, _her_ reasons and actions shouldn't matter nearly as much as your thirst for vengeance, your need to exact revenge, to get payback.”  
  
“I'm listening,” Elizabeth murmured, stepping closer and meeting Jason's approving eye.  
  
“What I'm proposing is that you turn the tables on Ms. Barrett-Corinthos. I have a plan which I guarantee you will be full-proof.”  
  
“And why would you do this,” Jason asked the younger man. “Why would you risk Brenda's wrath to help out us?”  
  
“Look at me! Working for her _broke_ me! Plus,” the little weasel smiled dopily, “it'll cost you, too.”  
  
Once more speaking simultaneous, Jason and Elizabeth agreed, “we're in.”  
  
Mr. Private Dick Spinelli just grinned even wider, and, just like that, Jason Morgan experienced his most disturbing sense of foreboding. Ever.


	6. Part Six

**Part Six  
  
** Prompt #11: Nothing's as mean as giving a little child something useful for Christmas.  
 __~ Kin Hubbard  
  
Jerkface was late.  
  
All he had to do was show up on time, and he couldn't even manage to do that without screwing it up. It figured, though. The man was hopeless. And annoying. And she hated him.  
  
“Ah, Miss Webber, you're early,” the creepy yet pleasant at the same time... an odd combination... private dick greeted her as she stepped into the lushly appointed office.  
  
“No,” she corrected him. “Jason's late.”  
  
That was her story, and she was sticking to it. If she admitted that she was early, then she'd have to admit that she was scared, that she had fled her hotel room (where she had stayed the night before rather than the ogre's penthouse) as soon as she managed to scrounge up enough courage to do so, ignoring the fact that, when she got to the judge's office, she'd be stuck there waiting for the asshole to show up and meet her. Her life sucked, and Christmas was no longer her favorite holiday.  
  
“Well, you look lovely,” the Spinelli dude complimented her. And she had to agree with him. She did look hot as hell. “Only...,” he started, and then stopped, and then began again, tempering his tone. “Are you sure... black was an appropriate choice to wear today? Black's the color of mourning, of funerals. Today is a joyous occasion. And don't even get me started on the leather.”  
  
So what? Morgan the Meathead could wear leather but she couldn't? “Maybe in your book today's joyous,” she countered. “After all, you're getting paid to be here.”  
  
“Yes, but you're getting pay _back_.”  
  
The P.I. had a point. However, unwilling to concede, she merely shrugged her shoulders in an apathetic manner. Needing something to distract herself, Elizabeth asked, “you never did tell me how you got all those injuries.”  
  
“All in the line of duty,” he replied. When she glared at him, cocking her hips at a haughty angle and fisting her hands upon them, he relented, backtracked, and even went so far as to look sheepish. “I take my work very seriously.”  
  
“Yeah, no shit,” she remarked, glancing around the judge's chambers where they found themselves cloistered together at the moment.  
  
He ignored her. “When I take a case, I promise my client that I will go above and beyond in order to get their desired results. Working for Ms. Barrett-Corinthos was no different, and getting two such disparagingly different individuals together... in the biblical sense... was not the easiest task I've ever been assigned.”  
  
“Hence all the sabotaging,” she guessed.  
  
“Precisely.”  
  
“Yeah, but, take that first night for instance, how did you even know that Jason would be on the same road that I was?”  
  
“That, Miss Webber,” Spinelli replied smugly, “was pure, whimsical chance.” He tried to reposition himself in his wheelchair so that he was more comfortable, but the numerous casts he wore prevented such accommodation, and the private detective ended up in the very same spot he had been in before. Frowning to himself, he eventually continued, “anyway, I was performing recon, following you, when I noticed both your vehicle and Mr. Morgan's leave the shopping district and head in the same direction. Taking advantage of the coincidence and my impressive knowledge of all the backroads in Port Charles, I took a short cut, got to that particular bridge before the two of you, and then ran in front of your car. My goal was for you to crash and for Mr. Morgan, whom I was told had a knight-in-shining-leather complex, to save you.”  
  
“Yeah, well, so much for that plan,” she taunted him.  
  
“I will admit that the events of that evening did not play out the way I had anticipated, but they did set a chain of events in motion that led us to where we are today.”  
  
She was silent for a few moments as she thought about what the P.I. had said. He had a point, but she still thought his actions were quite excessive. Perking up, though, she had a thought. “Hey, where did you end up hiding that night. I looked for you, but I couldn't find you anywhere.”  
  
“I dove off the side of the bridge, buried myself under a drift of snow, and then waited for the two of you to leave before crawling out and relocating my own vehicle.”  
  
“Any injuries?”  
  
“A broken foot, but I was able to wear a walking boot.”  
  
Wanting to know more, she prompted him. “So, then, the next day, you moved my tree and lit a candle beside it, hoping to... what? Start a fire so that Jason would ask me to stay with him?”  
  
“Precisely.”  
  
“You're fucking twisted,” she accused the private dick, glaring at him. “That was my grandmother's house. It's been in my family for generations. I can't believe you could be so cavalier with someone else's home. And what if I would have gotten trapped in the fire?”  
  
“Ms. Barrett-Corinthos would not have allowed that to happen. As you can recall, she sent Mr. Morgan there to see you that evening, and, if it's any consolation, I did somehow manage to burn off all my eyebrows when lighting the candle.”  
  
She had been wondering about the detective's odd looking face. At least that answered that question. “Yeah, because your vanity is worth as much to me as my freaking house, jackass.”  
  
“Is it a sign of affection from you when you call someone a nasty name? I've noticed you call Mr. Morgan all sorts of mean things, and you are here today, waiting to....”  
  
“No, I call him an asshole, because he is an asshole, and I called you a jackass, because you are a jackass,” Elizabeth answered petulantly. “Get on with the rest of the injuries. They're the only thing brightening my day at this point.”  
  
“Well, I tripped going down Mr. Morgan's stairs after loosening the riser, breaking my right arm, and then I fell off your roof after sabotaging it, fracturing several ribs, my pelvis, and my left leg. With so many injuries, the doctor insisted that I use a wheelchair. I must admit, though, that I like moving on wheels. I'm less accident prone this way... probably because it limits what I can do so much, and I find the chair itself can sometimes be quite convenient.”  
  
“You're such a....” But then the door opened behind her, and Elizabeth froze, her insult towards the floppy haired P.I. going unfinished. Clenching in miserable fear, she waited to see who was behind her, suddenly feeling nauseous. “Please tell me that's just a cleaning lady, or someone looking for a bathroom, or maybe even a cop looking to arrest me for being such a freaking moron?”  
  
“I'm afraid not,” a voice she didn't recognize answered. So, the judge had arrived. “I didn't get my times mixed up, did I? The ceremony is supposed to start at 5:30, correct?”  
  
“You're perfectly right, your honor,” Spinelli replied, earning himself a glare from Elizabeth.  
  
“No,” she corrected. “Morgan's late.”  
  
As if sensing her less than cooperative mood, the judge simply nodded before moving to sit behind his desk and getting started on some paperwork... no doubt paperwork that she would eventually play a key role in finishing. While he scribbled away, and the private dick shuffled his wheelchair back and forth as though looking for the optimal spot to watch her eventual execution, Elizabeth paced. And she bit her nails. And she swore underneath her breath. Despite her agitation, though, time seemed to slip through her shaking, sweaty fingers, and, before she knew it, the door opened behind her yet again. Without even having to turn around, she knew exactly who was there.  
  
Jerkface had arrived. “Where the hell have you been,” she berated him, receiving a baffled glance in return. “You're late.”  
  
“I'm right on time. You're early.”  
  
“Ha,” she challenged, laughing mirthlessly. “Like anyone would be an eager beaver when it came to shackling themselves to you.”  
  
Ignoring her dig, he tossed her a black, velvet box. “Here,” Jason countered, “put this on.”  
  
Despite the fact that she loathed him, despite the fact that she bristled under the weight of his order, and despite the fact that a part of her wanted to chuck the box back at his stupid face, Elizabeth knew what came in containers that small, that soft, and the truly feminine side of – the one that was insanely curious – simply couldn't _not_ look inside. What she found shocked the hell out of her.  
  
“What. Is. This?”  
  
“It's your engagement ring,” he told her, smirking. “It's something blue, and it's new... to you, but it's also an antique, so it's old as well. The case is borrowed. I got it from my grandmother.”  
  
“You've got to be shitting me. _Jason Morgan_ is into wedding traditions?”  
  
“Hey, I've been a best man a few times... all for Brenda and Sonny. She was a dictator when it came to this type of sentimental crap.”  
  
As they moved to stand beside each other, positioned before the judge's desk, Elizabeth rolled her eyes as she grudgingly admitted, “it's... nice. What kind of stone is it, by the way?”  
  
“A blue diamond.”  
  
Her _fiance_ had bought her a _freaking blue diamond_? Holy sweet mother of godzilla! And it wasn't just a carat or two; it was ginormous. Oh, and then there was the fact that there were two additional side stones as well, but they were just regular diamonds. Slacker. What the _hell_ had she gotten herself into by agreeing to their farce of a marriage?  
  
In her mystified stupor, she missed the judge standing up. She missed him clearing his throat, and eyeing them warily, and beginning his long-winded speech. By the time she tuned back in, she was already bored, and there was no way she was going to listen to some pompous, overbearing man of the court wax poetic about what had to be the most _un_ -romantic wedding of all time. So, half way through his soliloquy, she interrupted, “yeah, can we just skip all this mumbo-jumbo and get to the meat and potatoes already?” With another thought, she added, “oh, and I'm definitely not saying the traditional vows.” Without waiting for confirmation from her asshole of a soon-to-be husband, Elizabeth stated, “we'll make up our own.”  
  
But, surprising her, Jason merely raised an interested, curious brow.  
  
“Very well, then,” the judge allowed. “Since this is your preference, Miss Webber, why don't you go first for us.”  
  
“Whatever,” she agreed. Looking at her grouch of a groom, she held out her hand. “Do you have a ring for yourself, Morgan?”  
  
He slipped a simple, white-gold band into her palm, and then she began. “Look, I hate you. You're an overbearing, insufferable, hotheaded, mean-spirited, chauvinistic pig of a man, and the only reason why I'm agreeing to marry you is because Brenda has this coming to her. Big time! So, until divorce do us part, you can be Mr. Elizabeth Webber.” Shocking her further, the jerkface chuckled – he _chuckled –_ at her vows. “Your turn.”  
  
“You're mouthy, and rude, and totally insane, but you have a nice ass, and your boobs are of a decent size, and I have a feeling the only time you're ever quiet is when you're completely sexually satisfied... in _and_ out of bed. And I can do that for you, and you're right. Brenda deserves this, _Mrs. Morgan_. So, yeah, until _death_ do us part, you'll be my wife.” A matching band was daintily placed after her engagement ring.  
  
Before she could interject, before she could wind her arm back and punch him in his conceited, bratty, freaking gorgeous ass-face, the judge quickly announced, “by the power vested in me by the state of New York, I pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”  
  
She went to back away before Jason could do just that – kiss her, his vows obviously attesting to the fact that hate begets lust in his book, the stupid ogre, but, before she could, she felt something collide with the back of her legs, propelling her forward, her mouth already open to loudly protest the pain shooting through her ankles and up her calves when _her husband's_ lips came barreling towards her own. Just as she realized how exactly she had come to find herself in such a deplorable embrace – the freaking private dick rammed into her with his goddamned wheelchair, Jason already had possession of her mouth, and he was taking it – _and her –_ for all she was worth.  
  
 _“Brenda put all this time and money into making sure that the two of you became a couple, so the only way to really get vengeance upon her is to make sure that she doesn't get to reap the rewards of her effort.”_ As Jason's lips branded her own, as his tongue conquered her tongue, as his taste blended with her own unique flavor until Elizabeth couldn't tell their essences apart any longer, she heard the P.I.'s words from the previous day sweep through her memory. After all, it was his promise of retribution which had led she and her new husband down their dastardly, dark path of marital destruction. __“Get married, live together, do everything that Brenda would have wanted for you, but exclude her from it. Beyond that, keep it a secret from her for at least a year, and, then, next Christmas, reveal everything to her, rub her face in the fact that, while it was her work which brought the two of you together, she'll never receive credit for it. It'll eat her up, even more so than if the two of you never saw each other again for the rest of your lives.”  
  
By the time her first kiss as a wife ended, Elizabeth was out of breath... and loving every single dangerous second of it. While her husband was still an asshole, and while she hated him with every single fiber of her awesome being, Jason Morgan could kiss! “Merry Freaking Christmas to me,” she mumbled under her breath, biting her tender lip and wondering just how long it would take for them to leave the judge's chambers and get back to the penthouse where the real wedding celebration could start.  
  
“Sign the license,” the judge ordered them, shoving the sealed document across his desk where two pens were dutifully waiting for their hands to take possession of them. And they both did so, without a single qualm or hesitation.  
  
“Let's go,” Jason commanded, and, for the first time since she had met him five days prior, she didn't mind listening to what he told her to do.  
  
As they passed through the threshold of the judge's office, she could hear the private dick who had caused their whole freaking marriage in the first place chortling with unconcealed glee and self-satisfaction. “Just don't knock her up,” he warned Jason, “because that'll definitely give up the game and ruin the plan!”  
  
Suddenly, all Elizabeth wanted from Santa was a year's supply of condoms. She had a feeling her husband would be more than willing to help her out with that.


End file.
